The Erotic is a She

The Erotic is a She. We have been taught the erotic as a He. Masculine. Rigid. Control. The route straight up. Two points connected by a line.

The erect penis. Directed. Like an arrow.

We have been taught the erotic is a man we listen to. A directive. An action.

For centuries, the female has been left out of our anatomy books. The mystery. The Dark Place. The beginning of Life place. The dangerous place.

This place, cannot be controlled by He. And He forgetting to listen, trying to inhabit, trying to quiet fear. Trying to pretend that all exists in the light, and all that doesn’t cannot be worth seeing.

The erotic lives in the dark. Lives in dark places. Valleys. Ravines. Deep Water.

Some people do not dream. Do not enter that watery place. Some people talk about controlling dreams with the mind. Some people do not believe there is anything useful at all that happens in dreaming because after all what is useful must be repeatable. Must be controllable.

Like a good woman. (Or a good man).

Or a nice tamed piece of land.

Without any riff raff.

The wildness is a path to healing. When we strip the land, control Her, make Her appease all of our needs without any thought to Hers. She creates more wildness of course.

Sharp thorny places. Bigger bugs. Epidemics.

She speaks the language of Wild. Our first language. Our inner fiery cosmos. The part of us that doesn’t think. Knows. Moves. Inhabits. Never left. Never separated. Never became one.

Never thought better.

Never thought worse.

Never thought at all.

She is alive right now. She lives in the heart of the earth. She lives in the smallest insect. She lives in the intelligence of blood and moon and ripe honest lusting after what is so real that we become water

rushing down the mountain after the snowmelt. Cold and alive. Making it’s way down towards Her because She is in love with Herself.

She is in love with Herself.

She is in love with Herself.